The Winds of Winter
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The end of the Night King had signalled the end of Westeros's erratic cycle of seasons. However, in the Lands of Always Winter, the magic of the Others remained. Magic that could be taken from one world to another. Magic that would ensure that another land would know eternal night...


**The Winds of Winter**

Long was his beard, and aching were his bones, but still, Jon Snow continued to ride north under the fiery sky.

None of the Free Folk came this far north. And while he considered himself among them, and they considered him one of theirs, none had volunteered to go with the White Crow. The King in the North. The Slayer of the Dragon, the Saviour of the Living, the Everrisen. For in this land of ice, fire was still used to burn the bodies of the living. The North was their home, but the Lands of Always Winter were not to be trod upon. For it was from that realm of ice and misery that the White Walkers had arisen – once in the Long Night, again in the Great War. They would not travel with He of the Black Cloak, who walked the grey path that existed between black and white. They would wish him well, and beg him not to leave, but they would not travel that far north. Others had done so, and had not returned. Of the Crow Whose Wings Were Clipped No Longer, they would stay put and wait, praying to silent gods that he would return.

Jon had accepted it. He could feel death coming for him, whether it bear the face of the Stranger, the Night King, or otherwise. Cold had entered his bones, but something else had lurked in there for decades. The slow creep of death, reminding him that he did not belong in this world. Magic had brought him back, but his task was done. His fire was but embers, and his tale was long done. To the Free Folk, he was a saviour. To the Dothraki and Ironborn, he was a murderer. To everyone else, be it in the North or the Six Kingdoms, he was both. But the tale of Jon Snow had been told, and now, in the epilogue of this life, he wished to behold one last sight. The place where few had ever trod, and none had returned. If the Night King had led the dead to Westeros to besiege the living, fitting then, that the living come to his domain.

He shivered, as did his mount – a gift to him from the Red Wolf of Winterfell, given with the promise and hope that the wolf would see the crow again one last time before death came for them both. Here, in the lands of winter, in this eternal night, the light in the heavens offered no warmth. What magic was going on up there, he could not say, as green lights danced across the night sky. Even in this forsaken place, Jon reflected that were death to finally take him this night, he could meet it happily, if his eyes could see such a sight before closing forever. But-

_The hell?_

But he couldn't have his eyes closed any longer. For up ahead were two things that caught his eye. One, a giant glacier, jutting out from the landscape like a perpendicular mountain. It had caught his eye long ago, been his constant north point as he'd ridden through these icy lands. But the second thing, only just visible, was a stone table. And around it, a series of statues.

He dismounted Mormont and whispered the horse stay, stroking his mane with one hand while clutching Longclaw with the other. The sword had been his constant companion, so fitting it had been that he named his mount after the man who bequeathed him the blade. He could tell that Mormont wished nothing more than to leave this place, but that it would stay put and wait for its master. The Wolf had bequeathed the Crow the horse, and the horse always followed.

The once-declared King in the North walked across the snow towards the table, and the statues around it. The table itself was long and wide – enough both for a man to lie down on, if not find comfort. For not only was it carved out of stone, but runes were etched upon its surface. Carved by the Children of the Forest, Jon wondered? They were indecipherable either way, a dead language written by a dead people. Perhaps if he read it, he could work out why they had erected statues of men and women around it, spread out with no discernible pattern in location, or in stature.

_Perhaps it was not the children, _Jon reflected as he walked among the statues. _Perhaps, instead, by the ones who superseded them._

There were some commonalities in the statues, Jon noticed. All of them carried weapons, held in a manner that suggested they were intent on using them. Furthermore, all of them had pained expressions on their face – a strange mix of anger and fear. Running his gloved hand across the statue of a man wielding an axe, yelling, Jon had to admit that as terrible as the statues were in terms of the message they were sending, they were exquisite in design. Almost as if the sculptor had taken men and women and turned them to stone through some strange magic.

_Monuments of death, _Jon reflected, as he looked back at the stone table. _How fitting for this place._

He looked up at the sky again, still casting green fire on the ground below. How strange, he thought, that in this place of despair and darkness, where the enemies of life had once strode as gods, that he might see something so beautiful.

"Who are you?"

He spun round to the source of the voice, or so he thought. The snow was whirling around him. The wind was rising, its breeze whispering like a ghost.

"Why are you here?"

He unsheathed Longclaw and searched in vain for the voice's source.

"Are you lost?"

The snow spun. The man spun. Longclaw was his needle point, but he couldn't find north. Indeed, in this snowstorm, he couldn't find anything. Not Mormont. Not his way home.

"The snow has power, does it not?" the voice whispered, now indecipherable from the wind. "The Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve crave the warmth of the sun, but in the end, it is the winter that always wins."

Jon gripped his sword even tighter, no word upon his lips. Clad even as he was in his black fur and black cloak, the cold seeped into him. Through flesh, through bone, through soul.

"Would you see me, Son of Adam? Shall I bid the storm cease?"

Jon said nothing, though he wondered if he might be mad. But at the least, the wind was dropping. The snow was falling. The light was at last visible again, as was the stone table and statues around it.

_What in the hells?_

And something else. _Someone _else. Someone that caused Jon to lower his sword, but not sheathe it.

Ten feet away from him was a woman like many he had seen, and yet, not like any of them either. She was tall. Extraordinarily tall, at least seven feet. Her form was human, but her face was as white as the snow, and her lips as red as the blood that had so often been spilt on it. Her fur cloak was white and long, and her iron crown arranged like daggers piercing the heavens. Upon her breast was armour, runes carved upon it that were different from the ones he had seen on the table, yet still unrecognisable. But above all, it was her face that Jon's eyes lingered on, for he had seen that face before. A face that was beautiful, yet cruel. A face that could have been worn by Cersei Lannister…or Daenerys Targaryen.

"Do you not kneel?" the woman asked. "Do you not recognise the Queen of Narnia?"

"Narnia," Jon murmured. "This kingdom is unknown to me."

The woman laughed, the sound of her voice cutting through Jon's ears as surely as the cold had his body, her eyes sparkling like the lights in the sky above. "Of course you haven't, Son of Adam. In this world, with so many gods, long forgotten by the Emperor Beyond the Sea, you would not have heard of my kingdom."

Jon, after a moment, murmured, "that was not my father's name."

The smile and sparkles faded.

"Adam is not my father's name," Jon said.

"Indeed? And who, pray tell me, is the name of the one who brought you into this world?"

"My father was…" Jon paused, before saying, "my father's name was Eddard, of the House of Stark."

"Indeed?" the woman said, her lips formed in a sneer. "Well, no doubt you could name the ones who preceded him in turn. However, the lines of Adam and Eve are long, and I will not suffer their roots in my garden." Jon watched her take something out of her cloak – some kind of short staff. "However, I will give you the same fate as your friends here, lest you sit upon thrones that you have no claim to."

She pointed the staff at Jon. The White Crow, who said, "I have no interest in any throne."

The woman frowned. She jabbed the staff at him again.

"But when you say the same fate…" He looked at the statues. "I am curious as to what you mean."

"Odd." The woman lowered the staff. "You should be a statue by now."

"What?"

"A statue," she said. "My magic should have turned you into a statue, and you should have screamed your last breath." She began walking over to Jon, who clutched Longclaw in a defensive stance. "Why do you still live and breathe, Son of Adam?"

Jon wanted to say something, but he couldn't. This close to the woman, the differences in height between them were all the more obvious. That with inhuman speed, she dashed forward and grabbed his neck, lifting him off the snow with inhuman strength, also made talking difficult.

He dropped Longclaw. He brought both hands to hers, struggling to break free. Struggling to breathe. Long had he been ready for death, but not in such a manner. Cold had entered his bones, but the blood of wolf and dragon still flowed with vigour. But darkness was taking him, as surely as it had done all those nights ago. When blades cut through dark and flesh both. Darkness took him, slowly, surely…

"Ah. I see."

The woman dropped him into the snow, and Jon gasped for breath. One hand went to his throat, the other grabbed Longclaw. With speed that belied his age, he got to his feet, ready to draw the woman's blood. The woman who had already turned his back to him and was walking towards the stone table.

"The blood of dragons flows through you," she said. "And even fire can burn stone."

"You're insane," Jon whispered. He started walking after her, perfectly willing to put his blade through the woman's back.

"Insane," she whispered, before letting out a laugh that tainted the air itself. "So many called me that. But with but one word, I silenced the doubters, and with only slightly more, tricked children into ringing the bell." She looked back at Jon. "Shall I tell you why I'm here, Son of Adam? Shall I utter more words so you know the truth before you die?"

"I'm not going to die here," Jon said.

"Indeed?" She bit her lip, her eyes meeting Jon's. "Interesting. So many lives you have taken, and yet in your eyes is sorrow rather than cruelty. Interesting."

"Interesting?!"

"Interesting – weak men such as yourself tend not to remain weak for long. Either they grow strong, or they die." She laughed, and drew something out of her cloak – a stone blade, about as long as a dirk.

"This is but my second prize," the woman whispered, turning the blade over and admiring it. "Forged by the Sons and Daughters of the Forest, to be turned against the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve. Now the Forest's children are but dirt in the ground, and the legacy of their bastard spawn is mine for the taking."

"The hells are you on about?"

"Magic, son of Eddard, son of Adam, magic," the woman said. "The magic that carried a king and his army south. Magic that carries the Winds of Winter, and ever smothers the dream of spring. Magic, that through this writing, I have learnt." She turned her back to Jon and ran her hand over the stone table. "Magic that my own kingdom shall know. Winter…" She laughed, the sound as dark as the night. "Winter is the killer of hope. Winter is the power of control. With winter, Narnia is forever mine, and any who would seek to usurp my rule will be kept out." She turned back to Jon, who still had his sword at the ready. "The magic remains in this world, Son of Adam, even if its practitioners don't."

"That magic is not yours," Jon whispered. "It never will be."

"Brave words, Son of Adam. A fitting epitaph for one such as yourself."

Jon steadied Longclaw. And it was just as well, as the woman moved forward.

Short was the clash between Valyrian steel and stone as old as the earth itself. Short, and for Jon Snow, the Queenslayer, helpless. The woman had speed, strength, and height. He had conviction, steel, and desperation. Blow after blow of hers he parried, as he was ever forced back, unable to even strike at her. He was a king at the end of his reign. She was a queen at the start of hers. Small wonder to gods old, new, and eternal, that she cut his arm, and a second later, grabbed him by the neck, causing him to drop his sword. No wonder that none came to aid the son of wolf and dragon as the woman as she slammed his back on the table. Small wonder that the world remained silent as Jon cried out, bones breaking, blood coming out of his mouth.

Much wonder though, as she brought the blade down to his chest, that he grabbed both of her arms, staying stone from flesh, and her wrath from his life. Much wonder in Jon's eyes, as he saw the depths of hatred in hers. A hatred that exceeded even that of the Lion Queen, or the pitiless ire of the King of Winter.

"You defy me," she whispered. "So many have tried, and still, you seek to stay my blade."

Jon spat at her, blood landing upon her cheek. Blood as red as her lips, and as fierce as the fire within her.

"I am Jadis," she whispered, as she continued to press the blade down. "I am the White Witch. The Queen of Narnia, Emperess of the Lone Islands, and Last Queen of Charn. I am the daughter of Lilith, in whom flows the blood of giant and jinn. You…you are nothing, do you understand me?"

Jon remained silent, as he continued to keep the blade at bay.

"**You are nothing!"**

Stone pierced fur, and after that, leather. Stone touched his flesh, and Jon gritted his teeth. He had been here once. In the snow, far south of here, in the dead of night…he had been there…he had died there…

"No!"

It was not his cry of defiance that stayed the blade from his flesh however, but rather Jadis's. She, who withdrew the blade and stumbled into the snow, as something lept at her from the darkness. Jon, turning his head to the side, struggling to rise and get his battered body to stand, peered through at his apparent saviour.

"You," Jadis hissed. "Even now, you hound me. Even now, you save bastard children!"

It was a wolf, Jon realized. A direwolf, its coat as white as the snow around it. A wolf that briefly turned its eyes to him.

"Ghost?" he whispered.

The wolf turned away, and Jon knew it was not his companion of old. This wolf was not Ghost, but rather, Ghost as he lived in Jon's mind. His fur hale. His ears pricked, neither of them torn. His eyes red, and not bowed with age. Ghost had died in his arms years ago, as death had at last come for him. This wolf was not ghost. But it had its form.

"The Winds of Winter are at my command," Jadis whispered. "No Son of Adam or Daughter of Eve will ever rule from Cair Paravel. The land is mine, and the sea is the moat which you will never cross."

Jon, who'd managed to sit up, looked at the wolf. Advancing. Growling.

"Farewell, son of the emperor. Know that Narnia is mine."

What happened next, Jon could scarce describe. The wolf lunged at the woman, but with a strength that went beyond anything Jon had seen this night, she used her staff to shield herself from his pounce, before tossing him into the snow. The wolf got to its feet quickly, but not so quickly that it could stop what happened next. For using the staff, as if it were a wand, Jadis made a circle in the air. And beyond it…

_Oh gods._

Trees. Summer trees. Trees beyond this land. Trees, by which there was a tree of iron, shining with a golden, magical light. Trees that Jadis stepped towards, through the hole in the fabric of this world. A hole that closed a moment later, leaving only Jon, the White Crow, and the White Wolf in turn.

"She has taken the magic of winter."

A wolf that was now talking.

"A hundred years Narnia will know such sorrow." The wolf began to pace back and forth. "A hundred years before my strength will be enough to break it."

"Um…" Jon got to his feet.

"Two sons, two daughters. They will be needed. Yes."

"Excuse me," Jon said. "May I-"

The wolf growled at him, bearing his fangs. Jon, without blade, and with damaged spine, recoiled.

"Sorry," he murmured.

The wolf's fangs unbarred, but when it spoke, Jon felt no warmth in his voice.

"Go, Son of Adam," he said. "Your story here has ended."

The wolf headed off to the statues. It slinked around them, staring at them with an intelligence beyond even what Ghost had possessed.

"Magic of stone and ice," the wolf murmured. "Perhaps through golden breath I may save them?"

"Excuse me," Jon said.

"To which home though? In this wasteland? Or to Archenland I take them, so that they may impart tales of the terror that now lurks to the north? For indeed, the four must come from older world."

"Excuse me," Jon said.

The wolf glanced at him.

"You're…a wolf," Jon said blankly. "A talking wolf."

The wolf let out a chuckle, this time, carrying a hint of warmth. "I am a wolf in this world, Jon Snow, as I am other things in other worlds."

"Other…things."

"Would you prefer me as a lion? I could take that form, but I understand that lions are not your favourite animal."

Jon didn't say anything – he couldn't take about lions right now. That there was a talking wolf in front of him who looked like Ghost was making it hard to think about other creatures.

"Then again," the wolf murmured. "I understand that a lion is one of your last, and oldest, friends. One whom you meet at a wall of ice every few years, so that while your beards grow long and your bones old, you may piss off the roof of the world together."

Jon didn't say anything. How the wolf knew that, let alone his name, he couldn't say, because again, talking wolf. Witches. Statues. Magic.

"Go south, Jon Snow," the wolf said, turning his back on him. "Go south, and speak no more of this."

"After what I've seen?" Jon walked over to the wolf. "You expect me to be quiet?"

The wolf looked back at him. "Did you come here to die, Jon Snow, Son of Rhaegar, Son of Eddard, Son of Adam? Is death a companion so close that you would welcome it, even after being spared from its clutches?"

Jon remained silent. But as the wolf turned to him, even not coming up to his head, he found he had the urge to kneel. Some force, some instinct, echoing from his soul.

"Live, Son of Adam," the wolf said. "Live, and take what merriment you can still find in this world. This world, with so many gods, all false. Live, and know that I judge you by deeds, rather than by words."

"You," Jon said. "Judging me."

The wolf said nothing.

"After everything I've done?"

"You will find my forgiveness is eternal, Jon Snow, if not my patience." The wolf turned around. "Now go. Depart to warmer climes and fairer peoples than those of the blood of Jadis. Go, and spare no thought to wolves, lions, or stone tables. Go, and know that no winter lasts forever, and that peoples beyond you will know salvation in a kinder manner than what has been granted here."

Jon stood there, looking at the wolf, who in turn looked at the statues. He stood there, and thought of Ghost. Of wolves, lions, and dragons. Of life, of death, of the fire in the sky, and the cold that ever gnawed away at flesh and bone. He thought, he pondered, till at last, Mormont arrived, awaiting his rider.

He thought of it as he retrieved Longclaw. He thought of it as he at last, began to ride southward again. He thought, and glanced back a final time at the stone table, covered in rune and snow.

No sign of the statues now.

No sign of the wolf.

* * *

_A/N_

_Y'know, come to think of it, if two men and two women needed to sit at Cair Paravel to break Jadis's curse, was there any reason they couldn't have come from Archenland or heck, Calormen? Y'know, I'd have thought Jadis would be more concerned about those countries than kids crossing over from Earth. Just saying. 0_0_


End file.
